He stood outside the wooden cottage, listening to the silence interspersed with creaking trees and lone nightingales calling for mates. The pile of wood he had just chopped lay stacked high against the rough wooden wall of his timber lodge. It was going to be a tough winter, he could sense it, and was glad that their stores were full from the plentiful summer: cured meat, dried fruit, roots and even a bit of flour from their little patch of land. Every year the trees encroached on their space, and every year he hacked back the forest, using the wood to help them survive the increasingly harsh winters. He felt a gentle touch on his arm; his wife, done with her chores, joined him in contemplating the early evening sky, whispy clouds following the auburn setting sun. The forest watched the couple, waiting, patient - soon the axe would tire and the trees would return to their rightful place.
